May '65

Sat perfectly still, I waited like a shag on a rock. 

My Akubra covering most of my face. 

Pulled down nice and low like the orange orb of a setting sun was hampering my view.. but all I was doing was feigning sleep. Pretending to nap while a tiny kitten grew pluckier, and creeps ever closer. The little kitten was becoming braver as each minute passed.

A glorious linen white slashed across the furry critters' forehead. Zig-zagging wildly down over one eye. Beautiful ginger, the rest of him, or her. The white lightning strike gave the little mite a look of spunk. Only a month or two old, barely weaned, scrawny and scared of contact, I assumed the tiny bundle was a street urchin, a beggar and thief of food from garbage cans and, perhaps, stealing from Pauls' tray of cat biscuits and milk left out for his own stray he had grown fond of.

In saying that, if I happened to assist and put biscuits and milk out, I was told off and to 'stop feeding the strays'.

I could never win in those early days, months....

I would try to help by clearing the table and get a 'I haven't finished with that' thrown back. Even if his tea was stone cold, he would bluster and bite.

Wash and hang my smalls (Yes John, they were small; not flag sized)... Paul would come back with 'get those disgusting things out of my sight'.

Say hello to the girly that turned his toes entertaining him in his bed all night long. I would get pushed back into my room as he marched her by toward the front door...

That sheila, you inquire?....... Never to be seen, nor heard of, again.

He was curious though.

When he thought I wasn't looking, he would examine. Paul was a sly bugger and I missed, at first, the stealth by which he extracted information; but after a while I caught on and stayed calm even though underneath I was bouncing about like a 'roo with excitement. The idea of Paul being interested... Interested enough to put my movements under a microscope to analyse for whatever purpose he had. Most probably to gather evidence of my tomfoolery. Nevertheless, Paul watched; And even if it was only through his eyes, with not a word spoken, I clutched to the thin cord of excitement that he may defrost with me... like an Eskimos' icy igloo on an Australian summers day.

It took all of my self-control, of which I have little of, to not do what I would usually do... jumping about excitedly for his singular attention and beg for more;
Like a puppy would do for its owner.

At first it puzzled me. Is he studying me?

Searching for gaps in my story?

Finding cracks in my proclamation of being his sister...?

But he wasn't talking or questioning or strapping me to a kitchen chair and torturing whatever he needed answering out of me.

No, he threw choice glances at my hands, paying particular attention to the way I held my spoon. Like it meant something important; but I didn't understand what. I wish to buggery I knew, perhaps that one pique of his interest was the key to open his door. He perplexed me; he intrigued me; he hurt me when he pushed anything positive toward negative.

When Michael came by... we sat and laughed and wrestled on the rug like silly buggers.

I craved that closeness, that I had so easily slipped into with Michael, to be the same with Paul.

**

"He thinks you're here to scam us, he does" Michael twirled his long pointy finger five times in a circle over the biscuit tin, finally picking a biscuit... only to immediately toss it back in the tin for another tastier selection. I stared bullets and he sighed and retrieved the fouled biscuit. Pointedly pouting Michael proceeded to nibble around the edge of his idea of an unacceptable biscuit and finally, with an arm raised skyward he swooshed the limb downwards and dunked and splashed the sweet treat in his tea.

I giggled and passed the tea towel.

"I know.... He scowls at me like I'm a thief sometimes. Oh, yes... Why does he watch my hands when I stir my tea, I wonder?"

"He does?! How do you know?"

"I know you picked your nose not two minutes ago when you dived under this very table for your napkin..."

"Oh... sorry- habit" Michael pretended to pick his nose again while I refilled my cup with another drop of Earl Grey. "So, show us then... how you stir your tea. You stirrer, you"

Oh, that grin of his was so lovely. Stretching ever so wide and open for me. All for me. I dumped two flat teaspoons of sugar in my teacup and Michael paused my ministrations with a pat on my wrist "What? Did I bodgie something up!?"

"Now, right there, he will be thinking you are crackers for not stirring in four giant teaspoons" Michael laughed at my perplexed face and waved a hand for me to continue "Please madam; commence stirring away!"

"Why thank-you kind sir" Grinning then frowning, I shook my hands out and stretched my neck from side to side trying not to over think 'stirring tea.'

I had to be natural. 

Like I stirred tea every afternoon.

Like I stirred tea every morning.

I took a deep breath and blew a raspberry to counter the nerves.

"If you do all that every time, I'll pop you into the nearest funny farm myself" Michael smiled.

We both giggled after I snorted my noisy laughter out.

"Serious now, luv..."

I've come to the conclusion, I love, love, love Michael.

After a few short weeks I've found a brother, a kindred spirit, a peer, a generous friend, all in that boy. All in my brother. "OK, here goes" I stirred the tea nine and a half circles for luck, tapped on the lip thrice and placed my spoon to the left-hand side of the saucer. I then sipped from the cup. All while Michael stared. It was terrifyingly unnerving, especially as I had to try really hard not to bark out a rude laugh and spit tea all over the both of us.

"Well?" I had to break the silence.

"You look so much like him it's spooky"

"Oh great, now I look like a blinken boy"

"No, it's not that Terri. I don't have his jaw– you do. What I do have, however, is fantastic hair...." He chuckled and began preening like a peacock, flicking his nice hair all about the place. Michael then continued on with his dissection of my being a female Paul "You two have eyelashes a llama would be proud of owning. His nose- your nose. Big 'pretty eyes' -tick... Maybe he thinks you're a mirror and, as with all other mirrors, Paul is quite often found staring into them"

"Oh, do be straight for once Michael!"

"Look, I don't know alright. Sparkie's watching for something. I guess you'll hear about it soon enough"

Paul took that moment to wander in from his lair. I started calling his music mayhem room a lair because that was the best place to catch him acting like a bear. He's very particular of whom enters his 'lair'. John has the run of the place and he's always mucking things up, tossing things down... but John is like a balm. Paul forgives, forgets and turns his head to John's games, his raging sarcasm and, occasionally, his spite; if he happens to be in a mood.

I get all Johns nice side. On his own, with me, John is attentive and interested. Oh, and still slow at closing windows. Sexy as sin backside when he leans over the back of the sofa to close the front room window though. It's open quite a lot when John pops by...

Paul isn't so lucky, he gets the vexed John. The one that has started detesting being a man in a gilded cage. Impatient John; the man that doesn't have enough hours to do what he wants. Or self conscious, grumbly John; the John that doesn't like the way he sounds musically that particular day.

Yet Paul accepts him. 

All of him.

I'm jealous of his mate.

***

"Would you two buffoons clean up that ruddy mess" He had had it up to here listening to Mike make niceties. Laughing and grinning his happy gullible heart out.

Isn't he aware of the dangers of falling too soon, paving the way for the knife to ram into his back? Mike has always had a spot for waifs and strays and this Aussie is a stray likely vying for a cosy nest.

"Where are all the monte carlo biscuits, Mike?!"

Those Aussie biscuits are the bee's knees and I think I may love them more than Michael. No, no thinking... Yep, I do. Oh well, I'll tell him it's her fault if he's hurt by the fallout of my loyalty to the Australians' biscuity bait; She introduced them to the table after all. Well, I knew some of the local delicacies from the Australasian tour but she stuck more assorted colonial offerings in the tin... She's wearing that serene grin again. The grin that pushes me towards recalling long lost afternoons of sweet, tepid tea and warm cuddles on the sofa. But her slight disturbing aura of familiarity doesn't help her in the least with her cause. Her plan.

"Oopsy, sorry there Sparkles" Mikey grinned like a hyena and I glared. Bloody stupid nickname, innit.

She may tap her spoon three times all she likes. She can lick the thing for all I care.

She may stir the tea in her cup nine and a half times, every time, but that does not allow her to take the family key, open the door and then run away.

She may have some oddly comforting traits' but it is most likely co-incidence as opposed to what she wants Mike and Dad, and me, to think;

That she's actually family.

Blah... How does a mother allow this... This preposterous story that this Aussie, and now Da, purports to be true?

Have a female child and send it thousands of miles away to live.

She doesn't, that's how.

All poppycock, that.

"Go buy me some more ruddy biscuits, Michael! You're like an industrial strength vacuum cleaner!"

Figment of the imagination all that.

Imagine you can help a childless couple enough and you think you actually have.

No....

No babies were delivered to the colonies.

And the sooner she realises I'm onto her game, the better.

***

The kitten rubbed its chin on my big toe. I wiggled said toe as it sniffed all about. My socks must smell soooo good to kittens! Like catnip!

Interesting how everything has a purpose.

My socks attract skittish kittens. Fly's swarm to cow shit. Randy bulls attract to the good heifers. Oh daddy, I do miss our rides together, our chats, my lessons about life.
Bats and possums converge on ripening Mangos. Fish to the berley and bait. Females... to Paul. Maybe Pauls' socks are his sex weapon and not those vinyl discs that spin the band's sound. Maybe Paul has worse natural foot odour than moi and that's what draws the pretty sheilas in!

I bought Paul more biscuits today. Monte Carlo's, Nice, Scotch Finger. Some of those chocolate Oliver fancy Schmancy ones our slow John devours at top speed. All sorts I brought back from the big store with imported, but scarce, Aussie fare.

Plonking the grocery bag down, I left it sat centre stage on the kitchen table. Leaving it there for Paul to delve.

Iced Vo Vo's, Ginger Nuts, orange creams. My new favourite, Jammy Dodgers, are the bees knees... Digestives with and without chocolate, Custard Creams and plain Malted too. Something of an over kill but I'm sure as emu eggs he will see the kind gesture in a positive light. Well if he doesn't he will be well fed at the very least. 

How could it not be seen in a kind light? Bickies are simply... yummy! moreish, sugary, buttery goodness!

If only life was as sweet as a biscuit.

... And as cute as ginger zig-zaggy skittish kittens.